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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939630">Frivolous Miracles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley'>Raphaela_Crowley</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Cinderella Elements, Crowley Angst (Good Omens), Crowley Doesn't Like War, Crowley Falls Off Horse, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley stops time, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fairy Tale Retellings, French Revolution, Friendship, Gen, Glass Slippers (Cinderella), Marie Anotoinette, No Slash, Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Strongly Worded Letter, War is a Bitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:28:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,735</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1783: Crowley falls off his horse in the French countryside, gets rescued by a stranger, and discovers Aziraphale has been playing Godfather to a random family in order to have a temporary base of operations. The angel has also somehow talked none other than the queen of France into holding a lavish party. His timing may be less than impeccable. </p><p>A Cinderella Retelling set in the Good Omens universe.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1 of 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N: For anyone unaware of this, "Rampa" is actually what Crowley is called in the French translation of Good Omens (and in the French dubbing of the TV series).</p><p>Since this takes place in France, I couldn't resist using that name in this fanfic.</p><p>Also, any errors in French dialogue here are completely my own, and anyone picking up on them is more than welcome to point and laugh, or to just correct me in the comments. I won't be offended. I'm sure they are rather hilariously bad.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Frivolous Miracles</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Good Omens</em> fanfiction</p><p>Part <strong>1</strong> of<strong> 3</strong></p><p>
  <em>France, 1783</em>
</p><p><em>Damn horse</em>, Crowley thought sourly as one of the sparks shooting off from the great brute's hooves zapped the side of his arm, singeing his sleeve. (If the demon had been more fussy about clothing in general, or if the jacket he was wearing had been <em>real</em>, even, he might have been quite put out about it.)</p><p>Crowley hated it when Hell put him on an assignment that required riding horses – he usually <em>fell off</em>.</p><p>Not to mention it was bloody murder getting the horse to go where you wanted it to.</p><p>The only horses Hell let out (and – on top of that – made you jolly well <em>sign</em> for, so that you were held accountable if the blasted creature got itself shot in the head or broke its leg – and <em>then</em> got shot in the head – or poisoned and ended up back where it started from, even if it wasn't <em>really</em> your fault, when you got right down to it) were these big black numbers with flaming red eyes and big old nostrils that blew ashy smoke all over the place whenever they snorted.</p><p>These were not the kind of beasts that liked to do what they were told, or let a rider hold consistent dominance over them (not even if the rider in question happened to be Hell's Employee of the Month three times in a row and was looking like a shoe-in for a fourth).</p><p>It wasn't that Crowley <em>wanted</em> to go about on a pinto or – Satan forbid – a white Shetland with a silvery mane named something utterly trite, like Snowflake. No respectable demon – barring, perchance, a grand piano should fall upon his head – <em>would</em>.</p><p>The very <em>thought </em>made him cringe and shudder. Just Imagine Aziraphale seeing him riding up on something like that!</p><p>Not that he'd seen the angel for a while, but you could never be too careful – it wasn't unheard of for their respective sides to put them on assignment in the same damnable place without thinking it through. Even with their personal, highly beneficial Arrangement in place ever since 1020, there were still the odd...well, what they liked to call 'double bookings' happening from time to time...</p><p>So, no.</p><p>No, nothing like that.</p><p>But Crowley wouldn't have minded some slate-grey, tired, generally neutral-natured nag of a mare that did what it was told once in a while.</p><p>With a grunt, he tried to urge the horse into a sharp turn which would set them on the path to cut through some aristocrat's field. The sooner this was over with, the better.</p><p>The horse allowed itself to be forced into the field, then it reared, knocking Crowley off.</p><p>The demon landed – on his side – on the ground with a <em>thud</em> the useless grass didn't do nearly as much to soften as one would have expected.</p><p>"<em>Oi</em>!" he shouted, raising a defensive fist at the horse without any real malice.</p><p>There was somebody's voice far off. They were a blur on the other side of the field. "Monsieur?"</p><p><em>Shit</em>, he'd been <em>spotted</em>. He could potentially lose out on another stint as employee of the month if anyone downstairs found out about this. Demons were, as a rule, supposed to be stealthy. It was just hard to do so when you had an enormous, loudly whinnying, black horse trying to knock you off its back for no apparent reason, making you cry out. Not really what you'd call inconspicuous.</p><p>A hoof nearly struck him. Crowley rolled onto his back, narrowly avoiding the kick that would have crushed the front of his head in.</p><p>The bugger was being particularly nasty about it, and he vaguely wondered why that was. Perhaps because horses didn't like snakes and were, thus, always trying to trample them?</p><p>Wait, <em>did</em> horses – real ones, not the Hellish sort – even really do that? Or was he thinking of a different animal entirely? He made a private mental note to find out sometime.</p><p>"Monsieur?" The voice was closer now. "Are you all right?" It was a young woman's voice.</p><p>Contentiously, Crowley reached up to touch his face, felt no dark spectacles there, blessed profusely under his breath, and scrambled to his knees to search for them in the grass before the girl got any nearer.</p><p>The horse aimed another kick, this time at the demon's temple, and it <em>struck</em>.</p><p>Groaning, Crowley slumped forward, face-planting into an a loamy patch of soft earth.</p><p>"<em>Monsieur</em>!"</p><p>The horse neighed triumphantly and – going strictly by the rapidly departing <em>clop-clop-clop</em> sound that reached Crowley's ringing ears as he began to black out – cantered off.</p><hr/><p>There was the sound of water being rung from a cloth, and then something damp rested on Crowley's brow.</p><p>His eyes flew open.</p><p>The tall, thin contour of a girl – of about fifteen or sixteen years – with dark blond curls jerked away from him. A cool cloth slid off his forehead and plopped on the dirty floor of what appeared to be a barn.</p><p>For a second he was doubly confused. Then he <em>realised</em>. No spectacles. <em>Right</em>. Damn.</p><p>"<em>Merde</em>!" the blond girl gasped, recoiling, tripping over a bucket which sloshed ominously and then tipped over. "Jésus!"</p><p>"Just the opposite, actually," he told her.</p><p>"Qu'es-tu?" <em>What are you? </em>She was coming blearily into focus as she – with what Crowley considered rather impressive composure – crept forward again.</p><p>"Je m'appelle Rampa."</p><p>Her shoulders relaxed. A creature – any creature – even a creature with glowing yellow snake eyes – is always just that little less frightening once it reveals its name.</p><p>She lifted a hand towards her heart. "Zezolla."</p><p>"Pas le nom Français habituel." <em>Not the usual French name.</em></p><p>She smiled, much more at ease with his wry tone. "My mother was Neapolitan – that means she was from Nap–" She stopped, apparently taking into account that Crowley had lifted an arm and was making a hand-rolling motion, as if to say he wasn't an idiot and knew what Neapolitan meant. "And – <em>yes </em>– as you've doubtless picked up on – I <em>can</em> also speak rather a lot of English, if it helps."</p><p>Probably not a peasant, then, Crowley thought, despite the crummy dress. More likely some bored nobleman's daughter mucking about on the land in her play-clothes. You didn't exactly meet a slew of multilingual peasants or well-educated field-working servants.</p><p>"I'm afraid your lovely horse has gone, Monsieur Rampa." Her gaze dropped apologetically.</p><p>"Mmm, like a bat out of Hell, I'd imagine."</p><p>She wasn't in on the joke, and so it passed her by entirely. "I <em>am</em> very – <em>tr</em><em>è</em><em>s</em>, Monsieur – sorry I was not able to catch him for you. I did try."</p><p>After quickly informing her there was no need to keep referring to him as Monsieur – Rampa, <em>just</em> Rampa, was fine – Crowley looked around, squinting in the low, late-afternoon light.</p><p>There was nobody else.</p><p>"You didn't drag me here all on your own?"</p><p>She nodded. "You were hurt." Then, shifting slightly, cheeks flushed, "You also do not weigh so much. You are very skinny."</p><p>"Nonsense," the demon deadpanned; "you're just inhumanly strong."</p><p>Zezolla giggled at that. She wasn't exactly plump herself.</p><p>"And I take it this was <em>your </em>property I was crossing on my" – Crowley cleared his throat, choking back a twinge of humorous disgust – "<em>lovely horse</em>?"</p><p>She shook her head. "In name, my father's – at present run by my stepmother while he is away on business."</p><p>"Is your stepmother English?"</p><p>"No,<em> she's</em> about as French as you get." Zezolla's tone grew notably weary, as if the woman in question was a wholly unpleasant subject, however unavoidable. "I've got an English parrain." <em>Godfather.</em> "Stepmother doesn't care for him much, you see, only Père sent word mon parrain is to stay with us until his return – at the very <em>least</em> – so she's moved Monsieur Fell to one of the attic rooms – that way she doesn't have to see him except at supper. It's right next to mine. He goes back and forth between French and English quite often when he speaks."</p><p>Crowley just<em> looked</em> at her for a long, incredulous moment. "Oh,<em> Monsieur Fell</em> is it?" He arched a gingery eyebrow. "No chance we're talking about a fussy blond man who <em>really</em> looks forward to mealtimes?"</p><p>She blinked. "How did you know?"</p><p>He let himself fall backwards into the mound of straw behind him and sighed, "Just a guess."</p><p><em>Double bookings</em>. Damn double bookings. It never failed. Neither side ever bothered to check up.</p><p>Not, of course, that the demon didn't have to bite back a smile at the thought of seeing his principality friend again. So it wasn't<em> all </em>bad.</p><p>"You can stay here tonight, Rampa," Zezolla told him, dropping a girder in front of his – still somewhat fuzzy – assembly line of thoughts as she hastily brushed dirt off her skirt and motioned at the barn door with splayed, anxious fingers. "I have to be getting back to the manor or my stepmother will be angry. I'll return here around midnight – sneak by this way again; bring you something to eat and blankets and things."</p><hr/><p>The little furnished attic space Aziraphale occupied in the elegant French manor resembled a respectable English gentleman's sitting room more than it did a place where one might actually sleep. There was no bed. Aziraphale had had it removed (he never slept, so from his viewpoint it was simply cluttering up the limited space, which he desperately needed for the three heavy trunks of books he'd been lugging around with him for over a century by this point). He'd then promptly replaced it with upholstered velvet-seated chairs and a respectable tea-table. Which, frankly, he'd been quite put out Zezolla's stepmother had not merely offered to him of her own volition. He had <em>standards</em>, after all, and merciful angel or not, he generally expected people to<em> know</em> it.</p><p>On this particular day, the angel was drinking cocoa, not tea, because tea prices were up and chocolate was a great deal less expensive at the moment. It certainly didn't hurt that Aziraphale was developing rather a fondness for cocoa over tea regardless. He had a sweet tooth, and found the foamy chocolate brew went a great better with the – rather <em>dry</em> – plain tea cakes that were brought up to him around four each day.</p><p>Aziraphale was just bringing one of these cakes to his mouth when he heard a knock on the other side of the attic wall. "Oh, do come in – mind you don't trip on the rug, it's been lifting at the edges."</p><p>A wooden plank slid out of place and Zezolla, looking rather exhausted, stepped into his room. "Bonjour, mon parrain."</p><p>It was always reasonably comfortable in the angel's little room, even on the dampest, rainiest days, and he never begrudged Zezolla (who he rather pitied) her visits, even when he would clearly rather have been alone.</p><p>"Well, <em>you </em>certainly look worn out," he sighed, shaking his head. "I do wish they wouldn't work you so hard."</p><p>"It wasn't Maman and the girls this time, Parrain," she whispered, a little breathlessly. "I had to help a man who fell off his horse."</p><p>"Good lord," said Aziraphale, by way of commenting without actually commenting. "I do hope he was all right."</p><p>"I expect he will be." She looked askance, playing nervously with her fingers. "I have told him he can stay in the barn tonight, as long as he is not seen."</p><p>The angel smiled approvingly. At least Zezolla wasn't a total moral failure. He'd hoped to have a positive influence over this household during his time here, but the other young ladies, Zezolla's stepsisters, would have been more likely to send the hurt man packing in her place. He'd tried many times to explain the finer points of goodness and charity to them, only they were too thick. Not to mention rather vapid and selfish. Zezolla was no angel – not that Aziraphale would have <em>wanted </em>her to be one – but she was doing fathoms better than the other women in this house. Which was why he'd privately resolved to arrange for something better for her before he left France.</p><p>"The thing is..." She paused, then swallowed. "He isn't, how do you say, <em>normal</em>."</p><p>"How do you mean?"</p><p>"I don't know what he is," she explained quickly. "He's got... Well, his eyes are like a serpent's – and they're yellow."</p><p>She had Aziraphale's full attention now; he was visibly struggling not to smile. "This snake-like chap... I don't suppose he left you with a name?"</p><p>"Rampa."</p><p>The smile spread wider. "<em>Rampa</em>, you say?" No three guesses as to who 'Rampa' was.</p><p>"Do you <em>know</em> him?" asked Zezolla, intrigued.</p><p>"Know him?" He forced the corners of his mouth downward. "Of course not. Certainly never met any snaky chaps before. I simply wished to inquire as to this unfortunate soul's whereabouts."</p><p>"If you say so, Parrain." She did not look, the angel thought – rather to his dismay – particularly taken in.</p><p>"Have a piece of cake." Aziraphale gestured at the tea-tray by way of changing the subject. "You really <em>do</em> look so pale, child."</p><p>"What manner of creature <em>is</em> it," Zezolla went on, undeterred, "that we have got in our barn?"</p><p>"Oh, at a guess, something from the bowels of Hell, but I shouldn't worry about it if I were you."</p><p>"As mon parrain, aren't you supposed to be worried about the state of my immortal soul?"</p><p>"Well, to be fair," said Aziraphale, taking a sip of his hot cocoa, gone rather philosophical, "I shouldn't worry about that very much, either – <em>no</em> human is immortal. And you haven't <em>got</em> a soul, Zezolla, you <em>are</em> a soul. S'not so difficult to comprehend, really." He took a another long sip. "Simple fact of the matter of creation, what."</p><p>"Oui? Then how do you explain the damned of Hell? Like in the paintings by Hieronymus Bosch?"</p><p>"Ineffability."</p><p>"I begin to suspect," she said primly, "<em>ineffable</em> is simply a word that means 'a manner of thing Monsieur Fell doesn't know'."</p><p>He gave her a look, one pale brow lifted. "Just eat your cake, Zezolla."</p><hr/><p>Half after midnight, something knocked on the glass pane.</p><p>Aziraphale glanced up from the book he was reading and rose from his chair, gently placing the book down on the seat behind himself. Pulling back the blue silken curtain, he saw Crowley – golden eyes aglow in the murky darkness – perched like a gargoyle outside his window, peering in. He rolled his eyes.</p><p>Crowley waved.</p><p>Sucking his teeth, Aziraphale unlatched the window.</p><p>The demon hopped gingerly into the room, landing lightly.</p><p>"I <em>thought </em>you might be Zezolla's Rampa, when she told me about you," Aziraphale announced by way of greeting. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"I fe–" Crowley stopped himself. "I had some minor trouble on the road."</p><p>"<em>I</em> heard it was in a field – and that you fell from your horse."</p><p>"Right, then. What's all this about you playing godfather to this random French family?" Crowley began to pace around the room, scrutinizing this less than ideal living space; he arrived, plainly, at the conclusion that it wasn't dismal, the best had been made of it, but he'd hardly set up somebody he <em>liked </em>here. Aziraphale could certainly do better.</p><p>"If you <em>must</em> know," sighed the angel, gathering as much from his expression, "I needed a base of operations – I was already in France to pick up a new prophesy book – a splendid <em>autographed</em> edition – and then Gabriel put me on assignment...</p><p>"It's not <em>easy</em> lugging trunks of books around from place to place, you know.</p><p>"So then this nice fellow – widower – needed someone present for the belated christening of his only child... I doubted anything was amiss – it seemed positively providential. How was I to know he'd remarry, go away, and leave me and his daughter to be demoted to an attic in his absence?"</p><p>"You haven't even got any shelves here," Crowley pointed out.</p><p>"Yes, I'm well aware of that."</p><p>"Have you ever considered opening a bookshop?"</p><p>"A <em>bookshop</em>?" Aziraphale's expression twisted into one of pure horror, as though Crowley had just casually suggested he feed a newborn baby to a crocodile. He began to splutter slightly. "But I don't want to <em>sell</em> my books!"<em> Perish the thought!</em></p><p>"No, angel – I meant as a place to keep them all." Crowley tapped the side of one of the trunks with his foot. "Then you wouldn't have to carry them with you every time you had to deliver a blessing."</p><p>The coin dropped – slowly, but it dropped. "Oh. When you put it <em>that</em> way, it <em>does</em> give one something to think on!"</p><p>"Glad I could help, now where's the bed?" Crowley began turning about in a circle. "Think I'll sleep for a bit. Gotten into the habit."</p><p>"Haven't got one – <em>I </em>don't sleep."</p><p>"<em>Uggggh</em>," groaned the demon.</p><p>"The chairs are <em>quite</em> comfy," Aziraphale suggested.</p><p>Crowley shifted into a snake and began to slither over to the nearest chair.</p><hr/><p>Zezolla stood in the small space between her attic room and Aziraphale's, rather confused as to why her godfather appeared to be blocking her path with his bulk. He'd never kept her out of his room before. She thought there might be a rat on the loose, as she heard some scuffling, but unless the rats planning on wintering in the manor's dark corners now that late Autumn was upon them had suddenly learned to swear under their breath and grown opposable thumbs with which to unlatch creaky windows, she had the suspicion that somebody else was in there.</p><p>Which, really, was even <em>more</em> intriguing, as he'd never had any company before that she could remember.</p><p>No, wait, that wasn't <em>strictly</em> true – once, and <em>just</em> the once, there had been the strange man with the striking purple eyes; he had the coldest, most disinterested gaze Zezolla had ever seen.</p><p>But she'd been quite small, back then, and there <em>were</em> times she was almost certain she'd dreamed that.</p><p>"<em>L'homme serpent</em> – he's not in the barn this morning."</p><p>"I suppose he had the<em> good sense to be on his way</em>," Aziraphale said pointedly.</p><p>Something cursed again; the window rattled.</p><p>"<em>Up</em>, you lift <em>up</em>!" Aziraphale called over his shoulder, growing exasperated. "No, not like that! You pull it out, then <em>up</em>!"</p><p>Zezolla craned her neck. "Who are you talking to?"</p><p>"Er..." he stammered. "No one, my child, no one."</p><p>"It won't <em>open</em>, angel!" whined a familiar voice.</p><p>Zezolla's brow furrowed; she placed a hand on Aziraphale's arm and tried to look behind him. "<em>Rampa</em>? Whatever are you doing in there?"</p><p>Aziraphale stepped back and let her in – there was no point now. He stomped back on his right heel in frustration. "<em>Crowley</em>!"</p><p>"S'not m'fault," sniffed the demon, defensively.</p><p>"What exactly–" began Zezolla.</p><p>"If you must know," sighed Aziraphale, "<em>Rampa</em> and I" – and here he glared at Crowley – "go way back. Though, to be fair, I wasn't expecting him to turn up <em>here</em>."</p><p>"You should have just <em>said</em> so," Zezolla told him, point blank, folding her arms across her narrow chest. "This would have saved me two extra trips to the barn today."</p><p>"I wasn't sure your stepmother – among other persons – would approve of our acquaintanceship." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "I'm afraid I panicked."</p><p>"Et vous!" <em>And you!</em> Zezolla turned on Crowley next, with slightly less ease and confidence. She could not guess at <em>his</em> reaction to being called out the way she could her godfather's.</p><p>"Eh?" said the demon, rather too innocently. "What'd I do?"</p><p>"You lied as well."</p><p>"Well, it's only to be expected of <em>him</em>," said Aziraphale, in a tone that might have been either defensive of or else despairing towards his snaky friend. "You can't blame him for that. Be rather like blaming a bird for singing."</p><p>"Oi, now, that's not–" began Crowley, rising in pitch.</p><p>From somewhere downstairs there came the grating sound of a ringing bell. It was not a proper bell for ringing, which would have sounded nice enough, but one of those porcelain bells that are more for decoration and sound absolutely awful when they are rung to get the attention of another person.</p><p>It was like two pieces of broken china being clanged together.</p><p>"<em>Zezolla</em>!"</p><p>She stopped, looked apologetically at Aziraphale and Crowley, and gestured sadly at the door to the attic stairwell. All<em> this</em>, of course, was much more interesting than whatever her stepmother would want, but she hadn't any choice.</p><p>"I <em>know</em>, dear girl, but you mustn't keep them waiting or they'll have both of us out on the street by the end of the morning, I shouldn't wonder." Aziraphale picked up a wooden tray with used plates that were – unexpectedly – immaculate and placed it in Zezolla's hands. "Do go on. Chin up. Everything will be fine if you keep your spirits raised and your nature good."</p><p>The bell kept ringing. Crowley made a face of pure discomfort. Zezolla briefly wondered if it was because of his serpent-like qualities that the sound bothered him. Then again, perhaps he was just <em>normal</em>. The sound would bother <em>anyone</em>.</p><hr/><p>As soon as Zezolla was gone, Crowley turned to Aziraphale and asked if the family – who could be heard screaming abuses under the floorboards before the girl even made it halfway down the stairs – were <em>always </em>like this.</p><p>"Worse, sometimes," the angel admitted, cheeks reddening.</p><p>"And you're never tempted to <em>do</em> anything to them?"</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"Well, I mean, you're an <em>angel</em> – you could cause any number of problems for them."</p><p>"Miracles are not to be used like that, Crowley," he replied severely.</p><p>The demon's brow lifted. "Mine are."</p><p>"That's because <em>demonic</em> miracles are purely selfish – all about gratification, what's good in the moment." He shook his head. "You couldn't possibly understand."</p><p>He <em>could</em> – he'd been an angel once, after all – but that was not a point Crowley would ever argue, as it wouldn't be good for his demonic image. "I don't suppose, when you leave this place and take up a new base of operations, you're bringing her with you?"</p><p>"No, it wouldn't be allowed – not by her family and certainly not by Gabriel."</p><p>"What are you going to do?"</p><p>Aziraphale smiled – he'd been longing to be asked that. "I've come up with a <em>very</em> good plan; I'm quite proud of it."</p><p>"Oh, yes?"</p><p>"I happened to pay a visit to Marie Antoinette last month, and–"</p><p>"Hang on! You know Marie Antoinette?"</p><p>Aziraphale frowned at the interruption. "Yes, we're friends. She's really a very nice young lady, once you get talking with her. Now, listen. The queen's got this young duke at court she's trying to marry off, and I immediately thought..." He gestured towards the stairwell door with his head. "You see, it's obvious Zezolla would be much better off with the French aristocrats than she'd be in this ghastly place..."</p><p>"How sure <em>are</em> you about that?"</p><p>"As I was <em>saying</em>, he wants a wife, and it's about time Zezolla had a new family – so <em>I</em> suggested a ball, doors flung open, invitations spread wider than per usual." He looked quite proud of himself. "The queen agreed."</p><p>"And I take it you're just going to ask Zezolla's stepmother to loan her a party dress so she can meet this duke? Just like that?"</p><p>The angel's face twisted into a grimace.</p><p>"You didn't think of <em>that</em>, did you?"</p><p>Aziraphale gnawed on his lower lip pensively, then brightened, reaching for Crowley's wrist. "Come along, dear boy, I've got an <em>idea</em>!"</p><hr/><p>Crowley was never <em>entirely</em> sure how Aziraphale had managed to drag him all the way from the French countryside into one of the most lavish boutiques in Paris, much less induce him to spend hours shopping for somebody he'd only met the other day (by pure chance of that stupid horse throwing him), but that <em>is</em> what happened.</p><p>At least the angel seemed to be having a good time comparing fabrics and occasionally asking the demon his opinion on various ribbons and matching lace. Crowley – though he'd never have admitted it – liked seeing Aziraphale contented and was enjoying his enthusiasm, bearing up well enough for that much alone, and things were going perfectly fine until Aziraphale realised none of the shop mannequins had the right shape to gauge what might fit Zezolla.</p><p>Zezolla was tall (only a little shorter than Crowley, in fact) and thin, and the mannequins were of the short, curvy variety.</p><p>"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, once, flatly, then glanced at Crowley and brightened considerably. "I say! <em>You're</em> about the same shape as Zezolla."</p><p>Crowley caught on. "No, no, no, no, no." He made a face. "Have you <em>seen</em> me in a skirt?"</p><p>"I <em>have </em>as a matter of fact – Culloden, a few decades ago."</p><p>"I thought we agreed never to speak of that again!"</p><p>"Honestly, my dear! I don't know<em> what </em>you're so embarrassed about – we've all worn<em> kilts</em> before. <em>I </em>had to wear one during the <em>entire </em>Heavenly rebellion – part of my platoon's uniform."</p><p>The face Crowley made then wasn't meant to be mocking – or complaining, for that matter. He simply didn't like thinking about the original war between Heaven and Hell – he thanked...well, not <em>God</em>, obviously, but <em>somebody</em>...every single night before he went to sleep that Cosmos War part two, to be known as Armageddon, was – apparently – such a gloriously long ways off.</p><p>Could be a hundred millennia until Satan decided to create an Antichrist and so much as get the ball rolling on that, which suited Crowley just fine.</p><p>Aziraphale didn't realise the direction the demon's thoughts were actually taking, however. "Don't be <em>petulant</em>, Crowley, just smile and lend a hand for <em>once</em>." And he tossed a length of silk and taffeta over Crowley's head as the irate demon tried to say something which got muffled by the yards of frilly fabric. "Oh, hush – nobody's <em>looking</em>!"</p><p>As Aziraphale pulled (and merrily fluffed out) the bunches of gathered material around him, Crowley caught a glimpse of his reflection in a bejewelled floor-length mirror. "Angel, I look<em> ridiculous</em>."</p><p>"That's because it's pink and you're a redhead," the angel told him dismissively.</p><p>Crowley turned away from the mirror and bit back a vicious blessing.</p><p>"Hmm," he mused, tapping his chin with a plump, smooth finger. "It'll of course look much...er...<em>grander</em>...once it's got a pannier..."</p><p>"Don't you <em>dare</em>," hissed Crowley, noticing that Aziraphale was reaching for a nearby set of hoops.</p><p>The principality was quite put out. His hands flew to his hips. "Really! How'm I meant–"</p><p>"C'est toi, mon ami?" <em>Is that you, my friend? </em>Suddenly standing beside them was, flanked by two ladies with high cheekbones smeared with too much rouge, a woman smiling brightly under a high platinum wig carrying a snapping, snarling spaniel Crowley would have readily believed was a hell-hound if anybody present made the claim.</p><p>"Maria!" Aziraphale lifted a hand and waved.</p><p>"Monsieur Fell!" she reached over her dog and extended a hand to him. "A pleasure as always."</p><p>Crowley groaned. How the deuce had he ended up – in a frilly pink dress in the middle of Paris – in front of the queen of France?</p><p>The young queen blinked at Crowley. "<em>This</em> is not your goddaughter, I hope?"</p><p>Crowley glowered behind his – thankfully newly replaced – dark spectacles. "Your duke friend could do worse."</p><p>"Who is this rude person?"</p><p>"Er," said Aziraphale.</p><p>"Rampa," Crowley told her.</p><p>"This one I do not like," she decided. "He is very skinny and very terse. His only redeeming features are his cheekbones."</p><p>"This one's not too crazy about you, either," snapped Crowley. "Your Majesty."</p><p>"Oh, deep down he's really a very n–" Aziraphale began, then stopped – noticing Crowley shaking his head angrily. "That is to say, yes, he is a very bad person indeed. Quite wicked, what."</p><p>Crowley grinned like a snake.</p><p>"You may bring this wicked person to the ball if you wish, if he's a companion of yours, but only provided he does not wear that<em> awful</em> dress – it is altogether not a flattering shade on him. I recommend <em>gentlemen's </em>clothing, but that is of course between the two of you in the end."</p><p>Aziraphale spread out his hands. "I'm trying to find something for my goddaughter – they're about the same shape."</p><p>Marie Antoinette examined the dress again, circling Crowley in a way that made him feel uncomfortable and also briefly wonder if this was how Aziraphale felt when he habitually circled him as he talked. "This dress on a thin <em>girl</em> would not be so bad – in <em>white</em>, perhaps, though. The pink is too garish. I would also lower the hemline and add silver embroidery to the bodice. Have you considered brocade over the top, rather than <em>all</em> taffeta?"</p><p>The queen's dog – all but foaming at the mouth by this point – took a vicious nip at Crowley, who lifted the spectacles just enough for the shocked animal to see his gleaming eyes, whimper, and duck under his mistress's silk-enshrouded arm.</p><hr/><p>Crowley and Aziraphale left the boutique with considerably less bounce in their step than when they'd entered. All the same, Aziraphale was reasonably satisfied, as he had a tightly wrapped parcel under one arm he was very much looking forward to presenting to Zezolla along with the personal invitation to the ball from Marie Antoinette herself.</p><p>Then he realised... "Oh, <em>no</em>!"</p><p>"What is it?" groaned Crowley.</p><p>"I... I forgot all about <em>shoes</em>!" The angel looked aghast. "Zezolla won't have any respectable shoes to–"</p><p>The demon – despite everything, despite being just a little tempted to shove Aziraphale in front of a moving carriage and discorporate him after what he'd just put him through – had mercy on him. "Don't worry about the shoes – I'll take care of that one."</p><p>He brightened. "Oh, really? Thank you."</p><p>"Don't mention it – <em>ever</em>." Crowley saw a vaguely familiar face across the street and furrowed his brow. "Aziraphale, isn't that–"</p><p>"Who? Where?" The angel looked where Crowley indicated – a moment too late, seeing nobody.</p><p>"He's gone now." He'd thought he saw Famine – all in black, as always, smooth and thin, grinning like a lunatic. "Never mind."</p><p><em>It's not </em>yet, Crowley reminded himself. <em>All that nonsense starts ages and ages from now – I'd know if it were starting now.</em></p><p>If it really <em>was</em> him, he was just killing time.</p><p>Time, and also – very likely – some people.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2 of 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <span class="u">
    <em>Frivolous Miracles</em>
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</p><p>A <em>Good Omens</em> fanfiction</p><p>Part <strong>2</strong> of <strong>3</strong></p><p>
  <em>France, 1783</em>
</p><p>Crowley squinted down at the parchment in his hands, puzzled. The word was smudged (and in French), but he was fairly certain he had worked out what it was.</p><p>He'd asked Aziraphale what kind of shoes he wanted for Zezolla, expecting something like satin slippers or a request for stylish high heels. Or perhaps the suggestion of a certain popular type of lining.</p><p>The principality, who had been rather harried and only partially paying attention to Crowley in that moment, scribbled something down, tore off the piece of parchment and thrust it thoughtlessly in the demon's direction.</p><p>So now Crowley stood in front of a shop rather at a loss.</p><p>
  <em>Verre.</em>
</p><p>Really?</p><p>People were making shoes out of <em>glass</em> these days? Well, that was human fashion for you. Always <em>something</em>. Sounded like it would be hard on the feet, though. Accidents with broken shards must be messy.</p><p>The idea of a glass shoe itself, however uncomfortable, had interesting potential in the looks department. Crowley harboured a secret fondness for things that shone and refracted, like crystal or glass. His mind was already spinning with the possibilities of such a thing.</p><p>How would you go about...? What part of it would catch the most light? Would it be clear or frosted?</p><p>Regardless, he didn't expect he'd find anything like <em>that</em> in this shop. With a small, careless shrug, the demon turned on his heels and began walking in the other direction.</p><p>If this was really and truly what Aziraphale wanted for Zezolla, he was going to have to improvise to get it for him. He supposed he had better get started quickly.</p><hr/><p>Aziraphale scowled. "I'm sorry, I completely fail to understand <em>why</em> you won't allow Zezolla to ride along in your carriage. You're going to the same ball, there's no reason–"</p><p>"<em>We</em> were invited by royal decree," sniffed Zezolla's stepmother, unfurling a feathered fan and waving it self-importantly in front of her pinched face. "Why should they want to see <em>Zezolla</em> there?"</p><p>Aziraphale bit back the urge to snap that no one in their right mind would want to see this woman's hideous daughters hulking over them at a lavish party, as it would spoil their appetite. (Which was a pity, because the food was bound to be positively<em> scrummy</em>. Marie Antoinette always had the <em>best</em> food at her parties.)</p><p>It wouldn't help Zezolla's case, pointing that out. Not to mention it would be rather ungentlemanly.</p><p>Alas, this whole wider-invitation lark he'd pitched to Marie Antoinette had had unforeseen consequences, as now these unpleasant people would be attending as well, but he'd at least counted on it meaning a free ride for himself and Zezolla.</p><p>Only the blasted woman had taken one cold look at her stepdaughter in her beautiful new clothes – white with embroidery, as the queen had suggested – and had flatly refused to allow the poor girl – near tears at this point – inside the carriage.</p><p>"Honestly, Monsieur Fell, if you have wealth enough to buy her such finery – which, I shall add, is above her station and highly unsuitable – then you have enough to see to your own transportation." Her gaze was cold as ice. "Indeed, I should think you have enough for a room in town without preying upon my husband's hospitality. Make no mistake, I <em>will </em>be sending him a letter informing him of your deception in this matter."</p><p>One of Zezolla's stepsisters stomped down hard on the back of her train until she heard a<em> riiippp</em> sound. "<em>Oups</em>, pardon." She smirked broadly as she pushed past them and climbed into the carriage to join her mother and sister, already primly seated within. "Non rancune."</p><p>Aziraphale glared. No hard feelings indeed! He'd gone through a great deal of trouble to get that dress, and poor Zezolla had been ecstatic when he'd presented to her early that morning before she was to begin her daily chores. It had no doubt made the day easier to get through, thinking about wearing it tonight, and now there was a gash in the train because of that spiteful, no good–</p><p>No, he mustn't hold a grudge. Mustn't be uncharitable. He was an <em>angel</em>, after all. And you couldn't entirely blame the girl for being nasty, not when you looked at who'd raised her to be that way. It was true, also, however, that she'd had the chance, same as Zezolla, to be better, and hadn't taken it, but you couldn't... That was, she was one of God's creatures, too, when you thought on it... One had to bear that in mind at all times to avoid unkind thoughts and dangerous seething anger. Still, it wasn't easy. If a lower-ranking angel in his platoon behaved the way this young lady did, Aziraphale would have given them a good talking to and no mistake.</p><p>Looking down at the torn train, and spotting the – honestly rather dismal – mismatched shoes Zezolla was wearing under the dress, he briefly wondered where Crowley was. The demon hadn't turned up with the shoes like he'd promised. He hoped he was all right. Demons in general weren't great at keeping promises (and admittedly Crowley wasn't always the most punctual person in the world), but this particular demon had never – when Aziraphale really thought about it – actually let him down or gone back on his word.</p><p>Strange to think he knew certain <em>angels </em>who were more likely to not turn up when they said they would, and wasn't that–</p><p>No. That way of thinking was <em>dangerous</em>. More dangerous than their harmless little Arrangement. Aziraphale frantically pushed the thought from his mind.</p><p>Besides, he reminded himself, <em>Crowley</em> wasn't the issue here. Zezolla would have been delighted to go to the ball in ugly shoes, overjoyed by the dress alone. No the issue here was this simply <em>impossible</em> stepmother of hers!</p><p>"Now see here, madam," began Aziraphale, rather heatedly, in spite of himself. "You <em>can't</em>–"</p><p>"Driver, we are not getting any younger back here!" she snarled, ignoring the fuming angel as her younger daughter shut the carriage door with a haughty <em>click</em>.</p><p>The driver flicked his whip, not without a short, pitying glance over his shoulder at Aziraphale and Zezolla, both elegantly arrayed and looking so extraordinarily fine (notwithstanding the tear in Zezolla's train), soon to be stranded here outside this gloomy manor, missing out.</p><p>"Do you know," huffed Aziraphale as the carriage disappeared from sight and Zezolla began to sniffle, "I'm starting to suspect that – even deep down – she's <em>not</em> a very nice person."</p><p>"You <em>think</em>, angel?"</p><p>"Crowley!" He whirled around to see his demon friend sitting on the manor's flagstone steps.</p><p>"C'est Rampa!" exclaimed Zezolla, a touch hoarsely, rushing over to him with her arms outstretched.</p><p>"You <em>really</em> thought she was going to just let Zezolla hitch a ride?"</p><p>"Well, <em>obviously</em>."</p><p>"You're lucky one of us thinks a few steps ahead."</p><p>"You've got a carriage, then?" Aziraphale brightened hopefully.</p><p>"Well, no," Crowley admitted. "But I've got this–" And he produced an extremely large orange pumpkin.</p><p>"What the–?" sputtered Aziraphale, pointing in bemusement. "Where the hell were you even <em>keeping</em> that?"</p><p>Crowley ignored the question, turning to Zezolla, whose arms were still extended towards him. "And <em>this</em>. For you." He passed her something wrapped in a bolt of raw-edged silk that made a faint <em>clink-clink-clink </em>noise as he handed it over. "You can thank your godfather for it – all his idea."</p><p>Brow furrowed, she peeled back the layer of silk to reveal something that glowed and cast prisms of rainbow light onto her surprised face. "They..." She blinked and ran a moistened fingertip along the edge of whatever Crowley had just given her, producing a faint ringing noise like a wineglass. "They are made of <em>glass</em>?"</p><p>"Yes. Walk lightly," Crowley recommended.</p><p>Aziraphale craned his neck, catching a proper look at the gorgeous slippers, shaped to look like a elegant lady's typical fancy high-heeled shoe, yet – it would seem – made entirely from flawless glass.</p><p>Around the broad heels, the shoes were clear and faceted, and the toes were frosted and swirled in clustered patterns like tiny, distant stars. There were glass laces as thin as fishing line tightly criss-crossed at the front, which looked far too delicate to ever actually remove, loosen, or attempt to straighten out.</p><p>Zezolla marvelled over them. "Ces chaussures appartiennent au ciel!" <em>These shoes belong in the sky!</em></p><p>"Glass shoes?" Aziraphale asked Crowley in a lowered voice.</p><p>"I thought that's what you <em>wanted</em>!"</p><p>"You thought I wanted you to find her shoes made from <em>glass</em>? What on earth gave you that impression?"</p><p>"<em>Verre</em>," he said helplessly. "That's glass, right?"</p><p>The angel closed his eyes and sighed deeply. "<em>Vair</em>, Crowley. As in lined with squirrel fur. Not <em>verre</em>."</p><p>Crowley reddened. "Oh.<em> That's </em>different. I thought you wrote<em> verre</em>. Is it <em>my</em> fault? Your handwriting is usually so disgustingly <em>neat</em>."</p><p>Aziraphale opened his eyes and patted the demon forgivingly on the shoulder. "Well, it was an honest mistake. There's no harm done, my dear fellow. So long as she doesn't trip or come down too hard on the heels.</p><p>"They're quite breathtaking, really. These glass shoes of yours. I've never seen finer work. Wherever <em>did</em> you get them?"</p><p>"Oh, just around – I know a guy," said Crowley, lying through his teeth even as what could be seen of his facial expression was clearly that of a person looking at their own work with muted pride. "Come on, then. Let's have Zezolla try them on for size."</p><p>She placed the shoes down beside her feet and lifted a foot towards one, feeling it expand around her ankle to fit perfectly. It was as if the glass were in a soft, flexible state. Her eyes darted questioningly to Aziraphale. "C'est magique?"</p><p>The angel's face was melting soft. "A gift made by a friend is <em>always</em> magic."</p><p>Crowley's already crimson flush deepened, darkening several vivid shades.</p><p>"Now, about this pumpkin business," Aziraphale said next, his expression all business now. "What precisely did you think I was meant to do with that?"</p><p>"How the heaven should <em>I</em> know?" said Crowley, throwing up his hands. "Trade it to a farmer for a ride, or – I suppose – you could miracle it into something else. Something with wheels." He pursed his lips. "M'supposed to think of <em>everything</em>?"</p><p>Zezolla piped in imaginatively, "It would make a lovely coach, if it were only bigger and hollowed out."</p><p>"Oh, that's so <em>unbecoming</em>," sighed Aziraphale. "Whoever heard of an <em>orange</em> coach!"</p><p>"<em>Or </em>we could just not go to this ball <em>at all</em>," Crowley reminded him.</p><p>"<em>We</em>?" Zezolla echoed merrily. "Are you coming <em>with</em> us, Rampa?"</p><p>"Naturally," said Aziraphale, motioning over at the demon with a tilt of his head. "He loves dancing."</p><p>There was a long pause. Crowley made a face.</p><p>"Yes, yes. Very <em>well</em>." Aziraphale flexed his plump hands, splaying and waggling his fingers. "All right, step back and give me some room to work."</p><p>Crowley and Zezolla took a couple of obedient steps back.</p><p>"You'll like this," Crowley told her.</p><p>Clearing his throat, the angel concentrated, gestured – in a strangely noncommittal fashion – at the pumpkin, and instantly there was a great orange coach with all the elegant trimmings standing where the gourd had been a moment before.</p><p>There were no flashy effects – the pumpkin didn't visibly grow or hollow out and then turn into a coach – it simply <em>was</em> a coach, as if it had always been one.</p><p>"Parrain!" cried Zezolla, her hands flying to her mouth. "I did not know you could–"</p><p>"Well, that's because I generally <em>don't</em>, and for good reason."</p><p>Her mouth twisted slightly. "It is simply that – seeing <em>this</em> – I wish you could have done <em>something</em> that time my stepsisters locked me in the broom closet."</p><p>"Er..." Aziraphale cleared his throat, a trifle guiltily. "There's no need to live in the <em>past</em>, Zezolla. Let's move on, shall we?"</p><p>"I do not wish to seem ungrateful – this is all wonderful – mais might I just point out <em>une chose</em>, Parrain?"</p><p>"Yes, what is it?"</p><p>"We have no <em>horses</em> to pull this beautiful pumpkin coach of yours."</p><p>"Crowley, I don't suppose you could shift into your serpentine form and sort of–"</p><p>"<em>Snake-drawn carriage</em>?" scoffed the demon. "<em>That's </em>your brilliant solution? Aziraphale, at any point of the day you were created, were you dropped on your head?"</p><p>He glowered. "Got any better ideas? Got <em>one </em>single, better idea?"</p><p>That silenced him for a moment – because, clearly, he did not. Then something out in the gloom of evening <em>neighed</em>.</p><p>Zezolla was rapt. "<em>Rampa</em>! It is your horse! He has come back!"</p><p>Crowley blessed under his breath as the thunderous hooves approached and the creature tossed back its glossy, ebony mane. "Oh, no, not <em>you</em> again."</p><p>"Oh, aren't you a handsome one!" exclaimed Aziraphale, approaching the dark horse with one plump, well-buffered hand raised. "There, there now, take it easy. What a <em>beauty </em>you are!" The hell-horse's muzzle pressed itself harmlessly against the angel's outstretched palm, and he grinned warmly in response. "Ah. <em>Hello</em>."</p><p>"You've got to be <em>kidding</em> me," grumbled Crowley, reaching up and straightening his dark spectacles incredulously.</p><p>"Really, my dear, <em>this </em>is the beast that gave you so much trouble?" mused Aziraphale. "But at least we've got our horse-drawn coach now."</p><p>There was some debate over who should drive the coach.</p><p>Crowley was all for Aziraphale turning some nearby scurrying lizards into human-shaped creatures for a few hours and making <em>them</em> drive and work as footmen so that they could all enjoy the ride.</p><p>Aziraphale was against it. "Right," he sighed. "That's all I need. Gabriel asking me why a garden's worth of lizards have suddenly become men."</p><p>"I'll do it, then," suggested Crowley. "Not like my lot's going to check up. They never do."</p><p>"Are you <em>mad</em>, Crowley? Do you know what sort of trouble I'd be in? Gabriel knows I'm here – hasn't got any clue about <em>you</em>, far as I know – so any ethereal trappings will automatically be attributed to <em>me</em>."</p><p>The demon appeared affronted. "I'm not ethereal."</p><p>Aziraphale was still focused on the fact that Heaven didn't know he was fraternizing with Crowley, so he couldn't even tell them the truth to get out of it. Which, when you thought about it, was terribly unfair. It wasn't like, in that case, he'd have done anything <em>wrong</em>. Not really.</p><p>Crowley repeated himself, a touch irritably, and the principality replied, "I'm sorry, what was that?"</p><p>"M'not..." Crowley shook his head. "Demons are <em>occult</em>, Aziraphale."</p><p>"Fair enough, but I'm not altogether certain Gabriel will look close enough to tell the difference. Not in this particular situation. Better safe than sorry." He was already a bit anxious about the pumpkin – it shouldn't be that big of a deal, but Gabriel had been a bit...<em>tetchy...</em>lately...and... "One of <em>us</em>" – he pointed, motioning between himself and the demon – "had better do the driving, I think."</p><p>"<em>Can</em> you drive?" Crowley asked him.</p><p>"I can <em>ride</em> a horse – quite well, in fact. I've been told I'm rather a good horseman."</p><p>"That's not the same thing."</p><p>"How hard could it be?"</p><p>"I'm not about to have you tip us over."</p><p>"I won't tip us over."</p><p>"Right." With a weary groan, ignoring his angel friend, Crowley reached for the horse. "I suppose I had better drive, then. Hopefully this brute won't have as much of an attitude if I'm not actually on his back."</p><p>"I <em>said</em> I won't tip us over."</p><p>"Get in, angel."</p><p>"Sometimes, Crowley, I could <em>just</em>–" Aziraphale made an annoyed, strangling motion with his hands, grunted emphatically, then held open the coach door for Zezolla. "After you, child."</p><p>"Parrain, my train."</p><p>"Yes, what about it?"</p><p>"It is still torn." Her expression fell. "From when Françoise stepped on it."</p><p>"No it's not," said Crowley, in rather a singsong tone, lifting himself onto the driver's seat and grabbing the pair of miracled reins that had appeared out of nowhere.</p><p>The horse tossed back its head again but did not rear or attempt to shake off its glistening harness. Which was a pleasantly auspicious start, all things considered.</p><p>Zezolla turned in a circle, trying to see the back of her own dress. "Mais... Of course it <em>is</em>, I–" She stopped, her mouth hanging agape. "<em>Oh</em>!" It was <em>not</em>. "But it is completely restored? I do not understand... It looks better than it did this morning!" Her gaze darted to Aziraphale. "This was <em>your</em> doing, Parrain?"</p><p>"No, I'm afraid not."</p><p>Crowley smirked.</p><p>"Merci beaucoup, Rampa."</p><p>"De rien, Mademoiselle."</p><p>With a delighted smile, she took Aziraphale's hand and stepped up onto the coach, settling herself on the plush inner seat.</p><p>"That was very kind of you," Aziraphale commented to Crowley, before he got in himself.</p><p>"Shut up." His tone, however, was soft – and he was still smiling as he said it.</p><hr/><p>The big orange coach zoomed down the country lanes at a most remarkable speed.</p><p>Although, <em>remarkable</em> was perhaps <em>not</em> the word Aziraphale would have used. If Crowley got that hell-horse of his – marvellous beast though it was – to go any bloody faster none of the wheels were going to be touching the <em>ground</em>.</p><p>They – Aziraphale and Zezolla – could hear Crowley's rather manic laughter alongside the constant mad <em>whoosh</em>ing noise that surrounded the speeding orange coach.</p><p>Zezolla, at least, appeared to be enjoying herself. She had one hand lifted to her stiff golden curls to hold them in place, but did not otherwise appear in the least distressed. Doubtless this was more excitement than she'd had in ages.</p><p>Good for her.</p><p><em>Aziraphale</em>, on the other hand...</p><p>He stuck his head out the window and silently prayed a stray tree was not about to remove it from his shoulders. His temples were throbbing – he thought he could see flashes of infra-black, the sickening colour that came right before one discorporated. When it was as safe as it was going to get – when the colour flashing before him eased just a smidgen, downgrading to a less worrisome ultra-violet – he craned his neck to shout up at Crowley.</p><p>"<em>Crowley</em>!"</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"You can't go this fast down these narrow little lanes!"</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p>"We<em> appear</em>," cried Aziraphale, "judging by the hasty passing of our surroundings, to be going in excess of some eighty-five miles to the hour."</p><p>"Wot? That's <em>all</em>?" Crowley sounded disappointed. "I could have <em>sworn</em> we were going faster than<em> that</em>! Hang on!"</p><p>Zezolla stuck her head out the other window. She pumped a hand in the air. "<em>Ouaiiiiis</em>!"</p><p>"For pity sake, child, <em>don't </em>encourage him!" Huffing, Aziraphale jerked his head back inside. "Oh, it's a complete <em>nightmare</em>! I knew I should have insisted upon driving."</p><p>Giggling madly, Zezolla collapsed into the seat beside him. "<em>Ah</em>. He is a great deal of fun, your serpent friend."</p><p>"Oh, no, no." Wagging an index finger, Aziraphale fixed his expression into something sterner than he strictly <em>needed</em> it to be. "He's <em>not</em> my friend. I never said he was my friend. I simply said we go way back. We're merely acquaintances. <em>Distant acquaintances.</em> <em>Exceedingly</em> distant. 'Don't even exchange cards during the holidays' manners of <em>distant</em>."</p><p>The coach rolled – then skidded – to a merciful halt.</p><p>Crowley blessed loudly at the horse, who let out a reproachful whinny in response.</p><p>"Couldn't have said it better myself," grumbled Aziraphale, straightening his mussed clothes and hair in a much fussier fashion than the breathless Zezolla by his side was bothering with. "That horse has more sense than a certain demon I could mention by name."</p><p>"We're here!" Crowley called out cheerfully.</p><p>"I'd never have <em>guessed</em>," huffed Aziraphale, stepping out and offering his hand to Zezolla.</p><p>She alighted smoothly, her train flowing out behind her to rather an elegant effect.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled at this. "Go on ahead, Zezolla. We'll catch up."</p><p>She let go of his hand and began making her way up the rows of lantern-lit stairs sprawled out before them.</p><p>Her departing steps clinked musically.</p><p>"Nice place," Crowley commented, leaping down from the driver's seat. "Surprised they didn't just have the party at Versailles, though. Seems the more obvious location for a thing like this."</p><p>"It's lucky for us the queen opted to have this ball at the duke's hunting lodge. We'd never have made it through the streets of Paris – not with <em>your</em> driving."</p><p>The demon waved that off. "Oh, come off it, I got us here in one piece, didn't I?"</p><p>"You were <em>incredibly</em> fortunate."</p><p>Crowley made a mocking face. "<em>You were </em>incredibly <em>fortunate</em>," he repeated in an exaggerated impression of Aziraphale's voice.</p><p>"Stop that."</p><p>"Stop that."</p><p>"<em>Crowley</em>!"</p><p>"All right, I'm done – I'll stop."</p><p>"It's just," sighed Aziraphale, "this whole thing was in hopes of planning a <em>wedding</em>, you know, not a <em>funeral</em>."</p><p>"Oh, you're just a barrel of laughs tonight, aren't you, angel?"</p><p>He side-eyed him wearily.</p><p>"Seriously, though – what happens if this duke of yours doesn't like her?"</p><p>"Why shouldn't he?" Aziraphale thought highly of his goddaughter and it never occurred to him – even for a moment – the duke might not be interested in her. The mere hint of any such thing was pure nonsense, through and through. Crowley might as well have asked him what would happen if the sky suddenly came crashing down on their heads, which he believed to be the far more likely event of the two, really. The duke not like Zezolla, indeed. That was the <em>least</em> of his worries!</p><p>"Okay," Crowley replied agreeably; "but what if <em>she</em> doesn't like <em>him</em>?"</p><p>He arched a pale eyebrow adamantly. "Oh, she'll like him."</p><p>"And if she doesn't?"</p><p>"Then this ball will never end."</p><p>"Steady on, angel."</p><p>"Shall we go in, then?" Aziraphale offered him his arm. "Keep an eye on Zezolla, give our regards to the queen?"</p><p>"Lurk around the buffet table crooning love songs to the brioche?" teased Crowley.</p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips and squinted at him, utterly unamused. "Let's just go inside, <em>please</em>."</p><p>Crowley took his arm.</p><p>The angel suddenly stopped, pulling his arm back. "Wait. Hang on a minute – wouldn't you say you're just a <em>little bit </em>underdressed, dear?" He snapped his fingers. "There, that's much better."</p><p>Crowley's clothes, though largely unchanged, the same colour and cut as before, were suddenly of a thicker, richer material and the buttons had more of a gleam to them – they appeared to be made of silver now. <em>That</em> wasn't too bad, but... "<em>Lace cuffs</em>?" The demon shook his wrists, from which there dangled a length of fine red lace. "Really?"</p><p>"Lace is <em>stylish</em>." He took his arm again. "And we <em>are </em>going to be fraternizing with royalty, after all."</p><p>"I never liked royals," Crowley admitted. "They always act like they're better than everyone else. Sort of like ange–"</p><p>Aziraphale caught the slip at the same moment the fumbling demon began nervously backpedalling. "<em>Crowley</em>."</p><p>He groaned softly, tossing back his head. "I didn't mean it."</p><p>"I know." Aziraphale patted the back of his hand reassuringly. "I forgive you."</p><p>They began to walk at a brisker pace, more in-step with each other.</p><p>"Oh, and angel?" added Crowley, offhandedly. "Just a head's up – we should probably leave before midnight." He glanced over his shoulder at their very distinguishable orange coach gleaming in the moonlight right in front of the lodge. The snorting hell-horse stamped an impatient hoof against the drive. "I'm not actually sure I'm allowed to park here."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3 of 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Frivolous Miracles</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Good Omens</em> fanfiction</p><p>Part <strong>3</strong> of<strong> 3</strong></p><p>
  <em>France, 1783</em>
</p><p>"Mon Dieu! Mais... What is Rampa <em>doing</em>?" Zezolla pointed out onto the middle of the ballroom, where Crowley was bouncing up and down and spinning in a circle rather spastically.</p><p>Balancing his loaded china plate from the buffet atop a ceramic spaniel (a pair of which flanked the sides of the nearby marble staircase), Aziraphale swallowed and said, "Er, dancing."</p><p>"He looks like he is having a, how do you say, <em>fit</em>." Zezolla sounded slightly concerned.</p><p>"The thing is, when I told you earlier he loved dancing, I may have omitted the fact that he isn't very <em>good</em> at it."</p><p>"Ah."</p><p>He conscientiously shook a couple cake crumbs from his fingers onto the gold-rimmed china. "Are you having a good time?"</p><p>Zezolla smiled. "Oui, Parrain."</p><p>Which was good, of course, but he was a little disappointed she hadn't met up with the duke yet – just where <em>was</em> that silly boy? He'd need to ask Maria, speed this whole thing up. They didn't have all bloody night! And Zezolla's stepmother – who thus far hadn't spotted him or her stepdaughter in the crowd – was bound to notice them eventually and do something wretched in a spiteful attempt to spoil the whole evening. They needed to get in on this while they still good – it was the strategist from the good old days, buried deep within Aziraphale's psyche, constantly reminding him of this inevitable fact.</p><p>When it came to well-laid plans, time was always of the essence.</p><hr/><p>The atmosphere among the dancers was no less merry for Crowley's ineptitude. He wasn't even the worst dancer there – at least two gentlemen were a great deal worse than he was, in spite of their frustrated instructors' best efforts, only they'd gotten themselves too sloshed to remember this fact.</p><p>Also, despite his two left feet and the awkward way he was thrusting his hips, his wilful enthusiasm left him with no shortage of amused partners. He was new to their social circle, yet he acted like he had every right to be there, and so several of the aristocrats he danced with readily mistook him for some kind of eccentric<em> prince </em><em>étranger</em>.</p><p>Involved in some continued conversation with his current dancing partner (the princesse de Lamballe), Crowley lifted his wrists and shook his cuffs. "Yeah, <em>I'dunno</em>. What sort of red would you call this?"</p><p>"<em>Blood</em>," said a dark, smooth voice that sent shivers down his spine.</p><p>He turned, slowly, his feet still haphazardly moving to the music but the rest of him no longer dancing. He said nothing – behind his dark spectacles, his eyes were cold, dilating, rapidly approaching their absolute snakiest.</p><p>She wore a flame-coloured gown studded with dripping rubies around the middle of the bodice and embroidered with scarlet thread all along the layered, billowing skirt. Her auburn hair was down – and straight – unadorned by either a fashionable wig or natural curls deliberately stiffened. Only nobody seemed to mind this.</p><p>After all, she was very beautiful.</p><p>That is, she was very beautiful if you <em>liked</em> her type of beauty.</p><p>Which Crowley did not.</p><p>She <em>destroyed</em> beauty in her vicious, merciless path. As far as he was concerned, she was the ugliest woman in the room; even uglier than Zezolla's stepsisters. They might be unpleasant, ill-favoured girls, but he was fairly certain they'd never actually <em>killed </em>anybody.</p><p>That was more than could be said for <em>her</em>.</p><p>"Mind if I cut in?"</p><p>"War." He nodded curtly.</p><p>"Yes, although I also answer to Lady Vermilion these days."</p><p>"I imagine it may soon not be safe to include the title." There was an air of superiority, of outright snobbery which Crowley almost <em>never</em> used, even in Hell, lacing his words when he said this.</p><p>"Oh, you sweet thing," she purred, taking his arm and leading him onto the sidelines when she realised he was not going to dance with her. "What could possibly happen to <em>me</em>?"</p><p>He consoled himself with the mental reminder that she was only paying attention to him because he was a demon – because she could identify him as supernatural being, lacking mortality, like herself. If he spoke coldly to her, acted like he was a very busy demon indeed and hadn't time for her until Armageddon was meant to start, she'd very likely <em>go away</em>.</p><p>"Nothing, I imagine."</p><p>"You've been busy." She wet her lips. "Demon <em>Crowley</em>, is it?"</p><p>He resisted the urge to tell her to sod off. "Is Famine with you? I thought I saw him in Paris the other day."</p><p>"Famine and I will be meeting up soon enough – there was no need for him to be with me tonight." She smiled; her bullet-like teeth were a glaring white against her parting red mouth. "Besides, he wouldn't feel welcome in a place like this. Not a single empty stomach to be found." Her tawny eyes drifted over to the buffet table. "It's not really his scene."</p><p>Crowley was relieved Aziraphale wasn't currently over at that table. He wasn't certain why, but he felt a bizarre, all-encompassing urge to keep War away from his angelic companion. He wasn't sure if it was some inexplicable form of over-protective jealousy on behalf of his friend, or if he was genuinely afraid she'd harm the principality in some way – all he knew was he didn't want to see them together.</p><p>It just felt <em>wrong</em>, somehow.</p><p>"But I'll tell Black you asked after him." Her gaze raked over his thin body; he had the uncomfortable feeling she could see through his clothes. "You're so skinny – he'll be <em>flattered</em>."</p><p>"Right, whatever. See you later, then." Crowley began to walk away.</p><p>War said a name – she called him back with it – a name he hadn't heard in a long, long time.</p><p>The name was not Crowley – nor was it <em>Crawley</em>.</p><p>The demon stopped, turned.</p><p>"You thought I didn't know which one you were?" She laughed to herself. "That's almost cute."</p><p>Now he <em>really</em> didn't want her to talk to Aziraphale. "Let's walk in the gardens."</p><hr/><p>The duke was conversing with an attractive young woman in a blue gown and a stiff, beribboned grey wig when the queen's podgy English friend – Monsieur Fell – snagged his arm and gently yet firmly dragged him away.</p><p>"Oh dear, oh dear – step away from the young lady, please." He rolled his eyes. "Come along, my good fellow, this way. Er, excuse us, Mademoiselle."</p><p>"<em>Paugh</em>!" The outraged young woman brought her champagne coupe to her lips and took a long, furious swallow. "<em>Merde</em>!" She twirled the crystal stem. "Damn good champagne, though." She'd found her silver lining, such as it was – so <em>that</em> was all right.</p><p>"But..." the duke protested half-heartedly, peering awkwardly over his shoulder. "But I <em>liked</em>–"</p><p>"For pity's sake, never mind that," said Fell, tugging him along. "There's somebody else here tonight you're going to like even <em>more</em>. No need to thank me, just keep <em>moving</em>. Don't look back. There's a good boy."</p><hr/><p>To any observers who happened to catch a glimpse of Crowley and War strolling the lodge's lovely garden they looked like quite a striking couple. They were both tall and thin and red-haired and ineffably <em>elegant</em>. The impression they made together from a distance was just that: utterly incapable of being expressed. Titian would have had to hand in his paintbrush, God help him.</p><p>But seeing them close up was very different. It was obvious from their expressions that they couldn't stand the sight of one another.</p><p>However – since that is exactly the sort of thing that<em> starts</em> wars, really – she was drawn to that like a moth to a flame and was in no great hurry to leave the cowardly demon's side, despite her obvious loathing.</p><p>Enemies in general were something of a turn on for her.</p><p>Besides, she partially owed her existence to him; she might never have come to be if not for his ridiculous questions so many eons ago. If he'd done it <em>deliberately</em>, she'd would have worshiped him. But she couldn't admire someone for sheer dumb luck. You didn't get persons fighting and dying over you by <em>accident</em>. Who <em>did</em> that? That was just pathetic.</p><p>"Poor little star-maker angel. You never knew how to fight <em>properly</em>, did you?"</p><p>Crowley grunted.</p><p>"Gnarled hands always grimy with dry stardust, wouldn't know the first thing about having blood on them." War sighed disparagingly. "Your friend, on the other hand – now he was something entirely else back then." She looked like she might swoon; it took a lot to make <em>her</em> wear a facial expression like <em>that</em>. "<em>There</em> was an angel who knew how to <em>fight</em>. He had such a beautiful sword – none of that ornamental crap – a brilliant battle sword, for slicing, chopping and cutting. The kind of sword that wants to kill but will settle for a good old-fashioned maiming.</p><p>"And, more to the point, he knew how to <em>use</em> it."</p><p>If she was anyone else, Crowley would have been worried over the fact that she knew about their close association – if not the Arrangement itself – but who the heaven was she even going to <em>tell</em>? The other horsemen? That was the least of his problems right now.</p><p>No, he wasn't worried; he was <em>angry</em>.</p><p>Angry at her for salivating over Aziraphale like he was some dispensable soldier – as if all that mattered about him was that he'd allegedly been good in battle before the beginning.</p><p>And as for himself, Crowley could have gone on happily for ever without that knowledge, seeing the principality only for the gentle-handed fussy person he was <em>now</em>, and as far as he'd previously been concerned had <em>always </em>been, if she hadn't felt the need to tell him that.</p><p>Even knowing Aziraphale couldn't have cared all that much about his role as a celestial soldier – look how readily he'd <em>given away </em>his flaming sword! – with this new, chilly knowledge floating around in his brain, Crowley felt robbed of something precious.</p><p>Then, perhaps, he shouldn't have been surprised – all War knew how to do was take.</p><p>"<em>Bitch</em>," he muttered.</p><p>She sensed the wound and twisted the knife in deeper. "It's too bad you guys never met up in battle during the rebellion, isn't it? <em>That</em> would have been something to see." She twined her fingers through his and squeezed. "But, hey, there's always Armageddon – right? I can't wait to see the look on your faces when you have to fight each other."</p><p>He inhaled sharply. "That's ages away, you can't tell me it's not."</p><p>"It is, but I've got plenty to amuse myself with in the meantime." She let his hand drop and pointed proudly over at the lodge. "Most of those people inside will be dead in ten years, now that I've come."</p><p>"You're here for the royals?" Crowley had known <em>something </em>was up, of course. He knew the hungry peasants were – rightly – getting pissed off with these people. Hell, he'd even alluded to it earlier in their conversation. But he wouldn't have guessed it was going to be <em>that extreme</em>...</p><p>"Hey. Don't look at me like that. They had their day. They're still having it now."</p><p>"You and Famine are working together on this one," he said through his teeth.</p><p>"Of <em>course</em>."</p><p>A terrible thought struck him. <em>Zezolla</em>. Aziraphale believed Zezolla would be safer and happier with the aristocrats. Crowley hadn't been so certain, but now he knew for a fact that any happiness she gained wouldn't last longer than a decade at best.</p><p>Aziraphale <em>cared</em> about the girl – Crowley couldn't let...</p><p>"Where are you going?"</p><p>He made a rude gesture and took off.</p><p>"Running away again," War yawned. "Some things never change."</p><hr/><p>"Aziraphale!" Crowley finally located the angel, nibbling on a cream cake and watching the dancing.</p><p>"Ah, there you are." The angel beamed at Crowley, licking the last of the cream off his thumb. "We were off to a poor start and no mistake; thankfully I got everything sorted out." He pointed to Zezolla dancing with a young man Crowley gathered must be the duke. "Had to give him a little nudge, but now they're inseparable."</p><p>"Yeah, well, I mean, they've only just met–"</p><p>"What does that matter?" Aziraphale frowned. "Adam and Eve only knew each other five minutes before Adam started composing poetry for her."</p><p>"Still. Not a couple you'd want to base major life choices on, amirite?"</p><p>He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly annoyed. "What <em>are</em> you talking about?"</p><p>"They fought a lot," said Crowley, weakly, watching the admittedly gorgeous couple spin into each others arms. "Adam and Eve. In the end."</p><p>The angel's hands planted themselves on his hips. "Only because <em>somebody</em> told them to eat things they weren't supposed to and got them thrown out of paradise."</p><p>"You've <em>really</em> got to let that one <em>go</em>," hissed Crowley.</p><p>The music came to a stop as the musicians decided to take a break and the various couples began to wander off – some to the garden, others to the buffet tables and card rooms.</p><p>Zezolla spotted Aziraphale and Crowley; she rushed over while the duke was getting her something to drink.</p><p>Crowley blessed under his breath. She looked so damnably <em>happy</em>. Her cheeks were flushed and she was fervently thanking Aziraphale for introducing them. <em>Whyyy</em>? Why couldn't the angel have been wrong this once? Why couldn't the duke have been some unattractive git who picked his nose and then wiped the bogies on the back of the stairwell railing?</p><p>If he'd been repulsive, if Zezolla didn't obviously adore him already, the demon wouldn't have felt nearly as bad about having to tell Aziraphale–</p><p>"Rampa, whatever is the matter?"</p><p>She'd noticed. She was looking at him now – as was Aziraphale – with growing concern.</p><p>He opened his mouth to say it – to warn her about the ugly future in store for these pompous aristocrats she was going to marry into – only he <em>couldn't</em>. "Nothing."</p><p>What difference would it make <em>now</em>, anyway?</p><hr/><p>Something anxiously shook the demon's arm, nearly spilling his drink. "Crowley, we have to leave – right now."</p><p>"Wot?" Setting his glass down and pulling back his dark spectacles, he gave the angel one of his rare, snaky blinks.</p><p>"Gabriel's here."</p><p>"<em>Wot</em>?"</p><p>"I've just seen him and Michael enter by way of the main staircase."</p><p>"What the deuce are <em>they</em> doing here?"</p><p>"I don't <em>know</em>," sighed Aziraphale. "But what I<em> do</em> know is if they spot us both here – and work out that the orange coach outside inexplicably hitched up to a <em>hell-horse </em>was a pumpkin earlier this evening – I'm going to end up with some very unsettling paperwork to fill out. At <em>best</em>. Now come on, let's find Zezolla and get out of here."</p><p>Crowley nodded. "All right. It's nearly midnight, anyway."</p><p>"Oh, my nerves can't <em>take</em> this," Aziraphale declared, reaching up and rubbing his temples. "I do believe I've had quite enough of <em>France</em>. D'you know, my dear, I think – once this is over – I'm going across the channel to England to try out this bookshop idea of yours."</p><hr/><p>The clock was striking twelve and they – all three of them – were running down the lodge steps, racing desperately towards the orange coach as if all the demons of hell were after them.</p><p>Which was a little ironic because, if anything, it was the exact opposite of that.</p><p>Only the befuddled young duke wasn't in any great hurry to see Zezolla – who somewhere in the course of the evening he'd concluded was almost certainly the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with – go.</p><p>He was right behind them and making rather a ruckus, truth be told.</p><p>"Attends!" he cried. "Je ne connoais même pas ton nom!" <em>I don't even know your name!</em></p><p>She turned at the waist, still running. "Je m'appelle Zezolla!"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>She cupped her hands around her mouth. "<em>Ze-zol-laaah</em>!"</p><p>"<em>What</em>?"</p><p>"Oh, he's a bit <em>dim</em>, isn't he?" called Crowley, sardonically, to what he thought was Aziraphale, only for it to be thin air. "Angel?"</p><p>The principality was several steps behind, panting and limping. "Wait just a moment, Crowley," he whimpered, bending forward and wheezing; "I've lost a shoe!"</p><p>He rolled his eyes. "Oh, of courssse you did!"</p><p>Normally, Crowley wouldn't do what he was about to do, but desperate times called for desperate measures – he only hoped none of his lot would sense the occult power being used and ask him about it later. They didn't, usually – but that was only concerning small, petty things. Demonic miracles borrowed for selfish gratification. This was something entirely else.</p><p>He threw up his hands and the world went silent. The clock striking midnight stopped mid-chime. Zezolla was still poised with one foot raised and her hands around her mouth.</p><p>Aziraphale looked around, puzzled. "Crowley, what did you just–"</p><p>Crowley didn't answer. Instead he went over to Zezolla's raised foot, popped off one of her glass shoes, and carried it with him up several steps until he reached the place where Aziraphale's lost shoe was.</p><p>He switched them.</p><p>There. Now the duke would have Zezolla's name and shoe size – no address, of course, but two out of three wasn't bad.</p><p>Besides, Marie Antoinette would know where to find Aziraphale, and by extension his goddaughter Zezolla; she would help the duke fill in any gaps. It couldn't be that hard to find the girl again. Not now. Crowley felt that – at this point – he had done everything short of leaving a literal trail of breadcrumbs to the girl's manor.</p><p>There was nothing else for it. Unless the hapless duke was a whole lot stupider than he looked, she would be found again. He'd turn up at her door with the glass shoe and profess his undying love. There would be wedding bells and veils and a lot of fluffy white cake. Aziraphale would be able to leave Zezolla with the warm feeling she'd be perfectly safe, that she would live a long and happy life, and Crowley would never tell him otherwise.</p><p>Some things couldn't be changed. And – despite everything – maybe they shouldn't.</p><p>"Catch." He tossed Aziraphale his shoe.</p><p>"Ah. Thank you," said the angel, replacing it on his foot just as Crowley began to start up time again.</p><hr/><p>The orange coach didn't turn back into a pumpkin after the night of the ball.</p><p>It rotted, slowly.</p><p>Not as a gourd, but as the thing it had become – the thing it had, perhaps, always been. There was no smell, but parts of it were beginning to crumple and vanish and sink into the ground like a discorporated angelic body.</p><p>Aziraphale and Crowley met there – in the place they had left it – the night before Aziraphale left for England.</p><p>The top of the coach was gone, nothing but coppery dust mixed in with the mulch below, but the floor and plush seats still remained. They reclined on them, staring up at the stars overhead.</p><p>"Angel, if you knew something... Something bad... What would you do?"</p><p>"I'd tell someone about it," Aziraphale said gently, tearing his gaze away from the sky and looking compassionately across the seat at Crowley. "I wouldn't keep it to myself."</p><p>"What if you couldn't?" He took off his dark spectacles and set them on his knee, staring over at the angel intently. "What if you knew it wouldn't make any difference?"</p><p>Wordlessly, Aziraphale miracled the cork out of a bottle of fine wine he'd brought – a gift from Marie Antoinette on the eve of Zezolla's wedding. He wiped the lip with a clean handkerchief and passed it to Crowley.</p><p>The demon took a long, grateful swig, then passed it back.</p><p>After a few moments, Aziraphale rose from his seat and plopped himself down beside Crowley, wrapping his arms around the demon consolingly.</p><p>"Wot's this for?" Crowley murmured, squinting blearily.</p><p>"For whatever you can't tell me." And he stroked his red hair and soothed him and whispered that, whatever it was, it was all right and he forgave him.</p><p><em>Forgave?</em> No, he had it wrong. Crowley wanted to say that it had nothing to do with <em>him</em>. That it was going to be all the humans' doing. Them, and that bitch War and her lover Famine. (The jury was still out on Pestilence, whether he'd turn up or not, but you never knew.)</p><p>He wanted to say he wished he was allowed to do something to stop it.</p><p>But he couldn't, so he didn't.</p><p>Instead he rested his head against Aziraphale and let himself be comforted.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>England, 1793</em>
</p><p>Groaning aloud, Aziraphale read Gabriel's letter. Then he placed it aside and covered his face with his hands.</p><p>The wording was curt, polite, in line with every formality imaginable, but the meaning was unmistakable. No more miracles for a while unless somebody was literally bleeding to death or they gave the word that he had clearance to use his celestial powers in a specific situation.</p><p>In all honesty, he didn't see what the big deal was. One pumpkin to a horse-drawn carriage a decade ago, followed by a few conveniently unlocked doors so Zezolla's stepmother couldn't keep her away from the duke when he came calling with Crowley's glass shoe in hand, demanding to see the love his of life immediately by order of the queen...</p><p>Hardly what you'd call <em>extravagant</em>.</p><p>Unfortunately, he'd also gotten credit – if you could call it that – for Crowley's little miracle of stopping time to retrieve his shoe. Aziraphale expected Gabriel<em> surely</em> would pick up on the fact that it wasn't his usual style (as the principality had never stopped time in his entire existence and wasn't altogether sure how one went about it), but he didn't.</p><p>Then, just this month, he'd gotten his miracles audited. That was when it <em>really</em> all started to fall apart. Hence the arrival of this strongly-worded letter.</p><p>What he felt he could use was something tasty to get his mind off the letter for a bit. He would have loved some crêpes – oh, and brioche. Too bad you couldn't get decent ones anywhere around <em>here</em>. The English had a great many things in their favour, things Aziraphale enjoyed about his current homeland, but expert cookery and baking weren't among them. They couldn't make much of anything right.</p><p>He sometimes thought of taking a little vacation and going back to Paris for a proper meal. And why not? Would it be so impossible? He hadn't gotten around to opening up that bookshop yet, hadn't found a suitable location, so there was nothing keeping him here.</p><p>Yes, why not?</p><p>He might also like, he decided, to check in on Zezolla and her husband while he was in France.</p><p>He'd heard the revolutionaries were getting a bit carried away over there.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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